We don’t know how a pig wrote itself a will, but it was in a pig’s handwriting, and we loved that pig like a squat pink brother, so we did its bidding. We made Albert into a pig-sized sandwich, and at the funeral, we placed the sandwich on an extra-large platter by the pulpit. Naturally enough, our church filled with a sweet, smoky scent, made ever the richer by all the pinewood; we had had the corpse prepared only too well. By the end of the first hour, our mouths were flush with water, and we began to whisper so. “Shame on all of you,” said the priest. Bless that priest. If not for that priest, we all should long ago have been made into animals.